


and a bargain must be made

by orphan_account



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not going to protect you,” Jack says after a moment, “You know that, right? I just need… answers. I just needed to see you.” He pauses. They’re both aware of how that sounds. They let it go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and a bargain must be made

**Author's Note:**

> I recently re-watched _miracle day_ and came out of it with a lot more feelings than I did the first time I saw it, especially concerning Oswald and even more so concerning Oswald and Jack (I could go on and on here as to what these feelings are specifically, but I'll spare you. I've written a little… thing that explains it though and I might put it up somewhere public some day). eventually, after letting it fester for a few days and building up a playlist that makes my heart hurt every time I listen to it, this fic happened. when I finished it, I spent hours flip-flopping, telling myself not to post it because it seemed obvious the fandom wanted no part of Oswald Danes and I was unsure if I would be welcomed or kicked squarely in the ass and out of the door I came from. I decided - along with some convincing from friends - that I would post it. not because I'm trying to cause trouble, but because I love what I wrote. I _love_ what I wrote. and the fear of what some strangers might think shouldn't stop me from sharing this with the world.

The first breath ripples through him, his lungs burning, pink and new, inflating as his throat clenches and his body – what’s left of it – rockets, arches off the rubble. He coughs as he inhales the smoke and dust and he tries to move, to adjust, take in his surroundings but he can’t, not even wiggle a finger and he takes in another painful inhale.

Agony. _Agony_. That’s it. That’s what it is. It feels like hours, possibly days as his body repairs itself from the inside out, skin and organs wrecked and broken from the explosion he had wrapped around himself. Everything is raw, shredded nerves reattaching, frayed and coiled, and he can feel every fingernail, every bone, re–growing and hardening under his skin and muscle.

This can’t–

No.

Rage swells as he fights through the throes of anguish his body endures. This wasn’t _allowed_. He made a choice. A sacrifice. And he was rewarded with life.

Again.

 _Fuck_.

– –

He hadn’t realized he had passed out until he’s opening his eyes and blinking up at a grey sky, the threat of rain already teasing from the low hanging clouds. He tests his limbs – bends his elbows, curls his hands into fists, kicks at the brick and concrete and metal that surrounds him, using the movement to free himself and he finally sits up, running fingers through his hair, feeling the nails scratch his scalp, a sensation he’d never thought he would let tingle down his spine again.

There’s a heavy roll of thunder in the distance and the sky explodes with rain.

Oswald throws his head back and screams.

– –

The curb is damp and soaks through his already wet jeans as he sits, huddled, arms wrapped around himself as he watches people walk past and around him like he’s a rock in the middle of a determined river.

He can’t stay here. Not on this sidewalk, not in this _country_. But he doesn’t know where to go.

He starts with finding somewhere to sleep.

– –

Gun smugglers are, surprisingly, hospitable and have startlingly decent memories, if the rushed and near–friendly way they pull him back inside their hideout is anything to go by. They ask about Jack, about the woman (the “loud one”), but Oswald shrugs, shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

He’s given the same room they had abandoned before and he promises that he’ll only be there a day or two, until he can sort himself out, until he can decide where he’s meant to be. One of the few men who speaks English tells him that’s good, because he only gets two days, unless he plans on joining their group, shipping guns back and forth along the ocean. The longer he stays, the bigger the liability. Oswald feels like he’s heard that somewhere before.

The door is slammed so hard the windows rattle and he can hear laughter coming from below him, the clink of glasses and the scattering of loose bullets, the stench of cigarette and cigars curling up through the floorboards.

It’s only early evening and he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since he died and came back and he can feel his stomach growing claws and scraping at his insides, protesting the emptiness but, instead, he drops down on one of the bottom bunks, falling on his side and curling into himself, facing the wall. His head is pounding and he listens to the second rainfall hitting the dirty windows as he closes his eyes.

– –

He wakes up in cold sweat, his hands shaking, the sky dark blue, the night illuminated by pollution. He puts a hand to his heart and can still feel it beating.

 _Jack_ , a voice whispers, first in the very back of his head and then everywhere around him.

 _Jack_.

 _Find Jack Harkness_.

– –

“I need to go back,” he says to the man who offers him a cup of warm water when he comes to not so subtly check on him an hour or so later after he’s woken up, “I need to go back to America.”

The man laughs heartily and, after wiping his eyes, he scratches at his beard and asks: “Why?”

“There’s someone I need to find.”

“Go out into the street,” the man says, chuckling as he walks away, “The most recognizable face in the world. They’d probably find you first.”

– –

“You’re making a mistake,” the same man says as Oswald rides in the back of a large truck with him, on their way to the docks, “Death is back. Death has come back. Not that I care for your well–being, but they will kill you. You won’t even make it to the electric chair.”

“They don’t use those anymore.”

“What?”

“Electric chairs. They don’t… they don’t use those.”

“Does it matter?”

It didn’t.

– –

He casually wonders, as they sail through open water under perpetually overcast skies, if him coming back to life was it, if he could perish like everyone else, or if he had been cursed with immortality. He thought, _what if_. He thought, maybe, he could throw himself overboard to confirm.

Death by drowning was supposedly a very peaceful way to go.

Or so he heard.

– –

It was dawn when they reached the other side. The docks were practically empty and smelled salty and wet, birds coughing and howling above, swirling in circles, the spray from the ocean prickling his skin and hair. He jumps from the boat onto solid ground and was already making his way towards the road when the man calls him back, a hand cupped around his mouth to be heard over the roaring winds.

“You’re on your own,” he shouts, “Don’t fuck it up, kid killer.” He waves as they pull away, shifting heavy boxes around on deck, the motor spluttering and choking.

 _Don’t fuck it up, kid killer_.

Oswald sighs.

– –

Déjà vu hits him at a dizzying speed as he sits down on a now dry curb, feeling the people move around him, but this time he keeps his head down, knees pulled up to his chin as he stares at his hands.

This was a mistake.

Jack could be anywhere in the entire world. The man had a habit of finding _him_. Not the other way around. Never the other way.

Finding Gwen was easy, because she had a family. It’s simple, to find the people with families.

As far as Oswald knew, Jack had nobody but Gwen. (And, even then, he wondered if that was true.)

How do you find someone who has no one?

Just like back in Shanghai, he needs to start somewhere. So he starts with finding somewhere to sleep.

– –

Money, unlike his body, cannot come back from the dead. And his pockets are empty.

– –

It’s still early enough in the day that the park he stumbles into is mostly empty and he finds a spot on a shaded bench to think. He keeps his eyes to the concrete and hears the thud, thud, thud of a jogger passing him by, her feet slowing down and he stops breathing, but she’s only adjusting the heel of her shoe and, in a few seconds, she’s gone.

More people go by. A dog sniffs at his legs.

He falls asleep sitting but wakes himself a minute later, jolting, flinching, momentarily confused. Someone shouts “Hey!” but it’s not directed at him. The relief is short–lived.

And then: a realization.

Jack thinks he’s dead. Jack thinks he’s in a million burnt pieces, scattered amongst the debris, buried with The Blessing, chasing little girls down in Hell. (It’s where he _should be_ , where he _wants_ to be and this thought makes his skin flush and he clenches his jaw.)

The only way they can find each other again is if he lets somebody else find him first.

 _The most recognizable face in the world._

– –

Out in the rather compact town, he stands on the sidewalk, leaning up against the wall of a closed antique store, the lights inside flickering, a doll with tightly curled hair, propped up on an old desk, staring straight at him through the bars on the windows.

A young woman with a watch and a stroller pauses to admire a flowery vase, talking quietly to a child with shockingly blonde hair, it’s thick arms hugging a stuffed bear. He takes his chance.

“Excuse me,” he says, tapping the woman on the shoulder, making sure to gaze, fixed, right in her brown eyes and linger there longer than necessary, “Do you think you could tell me the time?”

“Seven–thirty,” she replies, eyes narrowing, and he can practically hear her brain ticking.

“Thank you.” And, for good measure, he touches her arm. And then the stroller.

He makes it to the corner when he hears the woman shout:

“Wait a minute! Wait! Hey! That was Oswald Danes!”

– –

He does the same thing with an older man tugging the sticky hand of his toddler.

He gets the same reaction.

As he walks, he smiles.

It’s just a matter of time.

– –

Even if news travels fast, it’ll take awhile for it to come running through the doors of the bar that he found at the very end of town, just on the edge of where a busy street meets the very end of the road into the middle of nowhere highways. It’s dark and dusty, the lights dimmed down to an orange glow, the chairs and tables a beat–up and heavily scratched shade of brown. Nobody inside pays him any attention, the scattering of mid–morning alcoholics and the unemployed figuring he’s one of their own (he is, in a way, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth).

The seat he chooses creaks as he sits and he folds his hands together, keeping a careful eye on the television.

Just outside, he can hear sirens.

– –

Reporters pick up on the story after two days, flashing an old photo of Oswald, the name of the town in bright red letters scrolling by along with a phone number but, to Oswald, it all looks like gibberish, like a lost language that only three people in the entire universe could possibly understand.

He hasn’t closed his eyes in over seventy–two hours.

Hasn’t eaten in longer.

All he can hear is his name and the whine of sirens.

Eventually, they both start to sound the same.

– –

To be reborn and then die, starving and exhausted on a park bench a few days later.

Somehow, it made sense.

– –

They haven’t found him yet. _Nobody_ has found him yet.

He’s beginning to consider, maybe, that this bar must exist in a solid, fixed point in time. If the constantly changing news cycle wasn’t a dead giveaway that it, indeed, wasn’t, he’d most certainly believe it was true.

He’s on his fourth water for the evening, turning the perspiring glass around in his rough hands, listening to the ice clink and crack under the warmth of his palms. The door opens and everyone simultaneously looks up. The silhouette of a man in a long, heavy coat stands tall, hands balled into fists, letting in the cool air that rolls off the nearby ocean.

Eyes dart around, neck twisting and then he looks towards the back and hesitates. The bartender is about to tell him to make up his mind, in or out, when the man turns and abruptly leaves.

Oswald knows.

He scrambles out of his seat, knocking over his still full glass, ignoring the shouts that follow him.

The man is waiting for him, a few feet away. Oswald stops. Nobody moves.

“Jack,” he says cautiously. Jack says:

“No.”

Hands are wrapping around his arms and he’s being thrown against a wall, Jack’s face now mere inches away from his own.

He smells clean.

“ _No_ ,” Jack repeats, shaking Oswald, just a bit, but enough for the back of his head to bounce against the stone, “When the news said you had been spotted, I thought– there was no way. But I had to make sure. And– Why the _fuck_ aren’t you dead.”

“One last gift from our friendly neighborhood blessing, it seems.”

“Some gift.” But then Jack is pausing, his rage and confusion melting like frost on a hot car window, turning into something else and he tilts his head, just slightly, as he studies. “Why me?”

“Who else?”

There’s another moment and then a drunk comes crashing outside, hollering and laughing and everything breaks.

“Come on,” Jack says, digging fingernails into Oswald’s arm as he hauls him down the street.

– –

They hit no roadblocks as they sail out of town.

There should have been at least one. It’s almost too easy.

Oswald is in the passenger seat, staring out his window, his stomach lurching as the world around him zips by at terrifying speeds, watches the lights that stretch along the highway, counting them, counting the seconds between one and the next.

Neither of them speak, but Oswald can feel Jack glancing at him any chance he gets, side–eyeing and he can hear his hands squeaking as he clenches them tighter around the steering wheel.

“If you’re wondering,” Oswald finally says, and his voice sounds hollow, “how easy it would be to push me out of the moving vehicle, I can assure you, I’d be perfectly happy doing it myself.”

Jack says nothing in reply. But Oswald thinks he can hear him laugh.

– –

The rest–stop they pull into is surprisingly empty, but Jack parks far away from the main building, tentatively shutting down the engine but refusing to unlock the doors.

Oswald watches an exhausted family finish their late, fast–food dinner and begin to tiredly pile into their car. He sighs.

“You look like shit,” Jack says. And then: “It suits you.”

“You look exactly the same,” Oswald replies.

“I’m not going to protect you,” Jack says after a moment, “You know that, right? I just need… answers. I just needed to see you.” He pauses. They’re both aware of how that sounds. They let it go. “Once we’re finished… I’m dropping you on the nearest police station’s doorstep.”

“Really? And here I thought you’d do me the favor of killing me yourself.”

“Favor? I don’t do favors for you.”

“Not even ones that involve you shoving a gun to my head?” They share a look. Oswald can see the muscles working in Jack’s jaw, his shoulders hunching. “Does it always feel like that?”

“What.”

“Coming back to life.”

“What’d it feel like?”

“Hell.” There’s a lengthy hush that envelopes them and, in the silence, the car doors click.

“I could eat,” Jack says, “You?”

– –

The waitress gives Oswald a suspicious look as soon as she approaches the table but says nothing about it. Not yet. She brings them their water and blushes when Jack winks at her, grinning, telling her that they’ll need a few more minutes, if that was okay. She slinks off back towards the kitchen, her red heels barely touching the floor and Oswald watches her pale legs as they float away.

“When’s the last time you ate,” Jack asks and Oswald just stares at him. “Heck, when’s the last time you _slept_.”

“Not worried, are you?”

“Not in the least.” Jack lowers his menu, drumming his fingers, steady and rhythmic, on the plastic front and Oswald doesn’t even bother opening his own, doesn’t think he could if he tried. He’s slipped past the voracity and the stomach pains into the out–of–body dizziness that accompanies days of swallowing nothing but air.

She returns, pen and paper in hand, a straw now sticking up from her dark hair, keeping it in place, her knees quietly quivering from spending hours in the wrong kind of shoes. Jack orders, calm, collected, and Oswald doesn’t even hear what it is, preoccupied with hiding his face, with wondering how fast he could run, could slip out unnoticed.

A blue, plastic basket of rolls appears on the table a minute or two later, a small grouping of hard butter wrapped in foil snug amongst the steaming bread and they both look at it, Oswald’s gaze lingering just a bit longer before turning back to keeping eyes on the door as he fiddles, unaware, with his utensils.

“I know,” Jack says, patiently, “what a man who hasn’t eaten in days looks like. Trust me, I know.”

“So do I,” Oswald admits. It’s not just himself, but men in prison, the men who went on personal strikes, the ones who got so lost in their own heads that they didn’t know where they were, that they forgot everything but how to use a toilet and even then, sometimes…

“You should eat.” Jack nudges the basket closer and, finally, Oswald reaches over and picks up a piece of bread.

– –

“What happened,” Jack asks awhile later as he finishes one of his final french fries, covered in salt and nothing else. Oswald peers up from tearing apart his napkin and grimaces.

“You know what happened.”

“Why are you alive.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation already?”

“Why you? Why bring _you_ back. Of all people.” The question is sincere, earnest, Jack leaning forward, just a bit, his blue eyes not even blinking but Oswald says nothing.

If he knew that, he probably wouldn’t be here.

But who knows; maybe he would have found Jack eventually anyway.

– –

Jack throws him into the car and speeds off without telling Oswald where they’re going.

Ten minutes later, they wind up at a small motel.

He’s telling Oswald to wait in the car.

And then, he’s coming back and telling Oswald to follow him.

– –

The room smells like bleach, a faint linger of must and a powerful, eye–burning chemical. There’s a single bed, a thin, flowery blanket draped over the spring mattress and Oswald stands up against the grey door and laughs, just a little, as Jack closes the blinds.

“You know,” Oswald says, carefully but amused, “If this is what you wanted from me…”

“Shut up,” Jack snaps, teeth grinding, “I have questions. I have some thinking to do, some research… I need a place to stay, just for a few nights.” And then, as an after thought: “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“I expected nothing less.”

He could have fallen to his knees right then, thudded like a dead weight on the maroon carpet, but there was something else he needed to do first.

– –

The hot water felt like salvation.

He stayed until it ran ice cold.

– –

Every inch of him smelled of chlorine and no–name brand soap and he lingered in putting his dirty clothes back on but knew that without them he would be fully exposed, in more ways than one. He felt like he wasn’t in his body, the bright, invading light over the mirror making him feel as if he was going blind and sinking into the white tile under his bare feet.

He’s fumbling with the final few buttons on his shirt when he shuffles free from the bathroom to find Jack perched on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, back straight, his coat hanging over a single silver hook attached to the nearby wall. Oswald stares at the painting hanging over the bed, a sepia and orange mess of splotches and brush strokes, a tree, mangled and twisted taking over the canvas.

“They’re gone,” he hears himself say as licks his lips and stands over Jack, searching his face as Jack peers up at him, chin tilting back and an unreadable expression creeping over him like a heavy fog.

“That happens.” Jack pauses, barely even moves, his throat moving as he swallows. “How many were there?”

Oswald bites the inside of his cheek.

He straightens his cuffs.

“A lot,” he says.

Jack stands. They’re only a few inches away apart and Oswald can’t seem to make himself take that step back his head is whispering for him to take. He feels like if he goes, though, Jack will follow.

He makes it to the wall, his back hitting against the pale peach wallpaper. Jack follows every motion and they’re just as close as they were thirty seconds ago and Oswald feels a pressure on his chest, a buzzing rising and pulsing in his ears and his hands tingle and twitch.

“I don’t hate a lot of people,” Jack says softly, “But I hate you.”

“I know,” Oswald replies.

“I have seen men destroy planets, civilizations, hurt people that loved them and loved people that hurt them. But I pitied them. I hated them. But I pitied them.” Jack pauses, exhaling, lifting a hand to rest his palm next to Oswald’s head. “I tried. I honestly tried to scrounge up some pity for you.” He smirks.

“I think there’s someone you hate more than me, Captain.”

“Oh, really?”

“Your self–loathing is palpable. I can practically _taste_ it. You can’t stand it, not killing me. All those opportunities… even when I died, it was suicide. Coerced, perhaps, I’ll give you that. But even that didn’t last. You can’t kill me. You _won’t_ kill me. And you hate yourself for it, you hate yourself for coming to find me, for not putting a bullet in between my eyes the second you saw me, for not pushing me out of the vehicle while we soared down the highway out of town, for not tattling on me at the diner. For bringing me here. But, above all else, you hate yourself for _wanting me_.”

The hand turns into a fist and the wall shakes with the impact.

Jack kisses him with a growl, angry, his other hand pulling on Oswald’s hair so hard Oswald feels as if his scalp is going to be ripped clean off his skull but he returns it, digging fingernails into Jack’s back, scratching at the blue fabric and just as his lungs were starting to clamor and panic, Jack lets go, falls backwards, puts a hand over his face, touching his own mouth.

“Don’t follow me,” Jack says, his voice rough, and he snatches his coat as he spins around, throwing open the door and disappearing into the pitch black that expanded outward into the utterly silent parking lot.

– –

Oswald does as he was told and pulls a spare blanket from the closet and steals a pillow from the bed, spreading out on the floor, laying his straight on either side and staring up at the ceiling.

He closes his eyes, replays Jack’s mouth against his, the fingers in his hair, the fury that collided with him like a wave knocking him down into rocky sand.

His skin prickles.

Jack doesn’t return.

– –

The bed is slept in when Oswald wakes up from a nightmare only a few hours later, but there’s nobody else but him in the room.

– –

He wakes up again to sun falling across his eyes and a gun barrel being pushed against his forehead.

Jack is sitting on top of him, knees pressing into Oswald’s sides.

“Do it,” Oswald whispers. “Do me the favor.”

“I don’t do favors for you, remember.”

“Then do it for yourself.”

Jack bends forward and kisses him again, sadly and soundlessly.

Oswald closes his eyes when he hears the gun click.

– –

The last breath flutters out through his mouth, his lungs deflating as his throat constricts and his body settles down against the clean motel floor.

It doesn’t hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> my original intent for this fic was for it to be about 10-20,000 words longer than it actually is, most of which would be comprised of Oswald traveling around the country - and maybe the world - searching for Jack while I delved deeper into his character, into who and why he is the way he is and how he accepts (or doesn't accept) what happened to him but I realized a little ways into writing this that that would be utterly implausible to actually carry out. there's no way a man like Oswald could realistically explore the globe without getting recognized, thrown into prison and executed on the spot. it was disappointing, to say the least, to have to completely remodel the plot and make this the length it is now. I probably could have stretched it out a bit in certain parts but I didn't want to make things too repetitive or boring or out-of-character. I would love to, one day, write something longer involving this guy though. just maybe not what I had planned this time.


End file.
